


This Long and Sure-set Liking

by Kate_Lear



Series: Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes [3]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 17:29:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15845985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/pseuds/Kate_Lear
Summary: DeBryn's experience of Morse's time in prison, and his release.(Spans the gap between series 2 and 3)





	This Long and Sure-set Liking

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't _techically_ the third story in this trilogy, despite it being posted third. It's more of a bridge between the second and third installments, which I suppose makes this series a trilogy in four parts. If it was good enough for Douglas Adams...
> 
> The title comes from the Housman poem: http://www.sci.wsu.edu/math/faculty/barnes/housman.htm#ASLxxxiii
> 
> The 'real' third (and final) installment is ready and finished, and will be posted on Sunday evening. And enormous thanks to fengirl88 for listening to me alternately ramble and whinge about this story for what has felt like ages (and I'm sure felt twice as long to her...!).

When considering his speciality, the idea of surgery had never really appealed. The knowledge that he held someone’s life in the palm of his hand, that he could end it by a moment’s inattention or the merest quarter-inch deviation to left or right... It was too much responsibility for one man; small wonder that most surgeons of his acquaintance had developed an almost God-like belief in themselves. 

So it was something of a surprise to find that he actually kept his head under a surge of adrenaline, and that rather than going to pieces all became wonderfully clear, pin-sharp in its detail. All the external noise and bustle faded away as DeBryn stared at Morse’s scarf on the desk next to the body of Chief Constable Standish, the scarf that had so clearly been used as the murder weapon, as testified by the livid marks around the deceased’s throat.

DeBryn’s heart pounded, his mouth dry. It was impossible that Morse could have done this thing, DeBryn knew that as surely as he knew his own name. He trusted the fellow as he trusted few people in his life. But someone had gone to some effort to make it look as though he had, and DeBryn walked over to the side table to unpack his kit and take a moment to force calm over himself before beginning. Morse was in dreadful danger, and the best DeBryn could do for him was to do his job with the height of his skill. It was a mystery who had killed Standish and why; the why was out of his remit, but perhaps he could shed some light on the whom, and DeBryn rolled up his sleeves and set to work with steady hands.

The call came when DeBryn was halfway through the job.

‘Doctor DeBryn.’ A uniformed PC hovered on the threshold. In response to DeBryn’s look he added: ‘Call for you from City. Two bodies out at Blenheim Vale.’

DeBryn very carefully didn’t betray how this information sent unease rolling through him. Something serious had gone on this evening and he knew – with a sinking sense of resignation – that whatever it was, Morse was bound to be in the middle of it, with his usual bad luck.

‘Understood.’ DeBryn bent his head to his notebook again. ‘Any more information than that?’

‘One’s a police officer.’

A cold shiver ran down DeBryn’s spine, the room fading and his blood rushing in his ears, but he kept his feet.

‘I see,’ he said tightly. ‘Did they give a name?’

‘I didn’t ask.’ The PC shifted his feet.

No point snapping at the lad, it wasn’t for him to question the orders he received from on high, and DeBryn swallowed thickly. ‘Tell them where I am, but that I’ll come as quickly as I can.’

It was only due to DeBryn’s consummate professionalism that he didn’t rush the rest of his assessment. He pointed out the items to be removed to the mortuary for further examination, and watched hawk-like to ensure they were logged correctly. He supervised the preparation of Standish’s body for transport, ensuring the hands were carefully bagged to preserve any traces, and had a word with the coroner’s men, promising very sincerely to bring seven kinds of hell down on their heads if the slightest mistake happened or if anything went missing en route.

Only then did he leave, pushing through the silent guests to his car, the little Morris woefully outclassed by the Bentleys and Lancias. It was a clear night, the temperature low enough that the tremor in his hands could almost be due to cold, and DeBryn drove as fast as he dared on the icy country road out to Blenheim Vale.

It was a hive of activity; thank heavens the pathologist’s car was a familiar sight, and DeBryn had barely stepped out of it before a constable was there to guide him to the scene.

A constable who wasn’t Morse; DeBryn maintained his neutral demeanour but his eyes darted over the crowd, searching in vain for a familiar slim figure. When he entered the hall and looked through the doors, dimly making out two bodies lying on the floor, it was immediately obvious that the male figure was too stocky to be Morse, and DeBryn exhaled, his knees suddenly weak.

‘Doctor DeBryn.’

Bright detached himself from a group in the hallway. There was something odd about him and DeBryn frowned, briefly distracted by the unfamiliarity of seeing the man in his evening suit, before it struck him. Bright was alone. There was no Thursday, no Morse, not even Strange or Jakes in the background, and DeBryn nodded and covered his confusion: ‘Mr Bright.’

The last time DeBryn had spoken directly to the man was beyond his memory: usually Thursday was in charge, or at least on the scene to run diplomatic interference between Bright and the other officers – notably Morse.

He wasted no time, though. A trait for which DeBryn was deeply grateful, since he himself was itching to get in that room and find out what had happened, and he followed when Bright said crisply, ‘In here, Doctor.’

Two bodies, lying almost atop each other. Blood splatters more or less textbook if they had both fallen immediately after being shot, and as DeBryn pulled on his gloves he noticed a patch of fresh blood by the wall. He frowned.

‘Inspector Thursday was shot,’ Bright said, following DeBryn’s gaze. ‘Rushed to hospital. I’m sure he’ll have the best of care, though.’

The strain in his voice gave the lie to his determined optimism, and DeBryn forbore to comment as he opened his case. That at least explained the lack of Morse; surely the ambulance hadn’t been built that could keep him out when his mentor was being rushed to hospital, and DeBryn was suddenly and deeply thankful Morse was away from this whole bloody mess, because DeBryn was close enough now to recognise the male figure as ACC Deare. Whatever had taken place here, it was clearly serious, and DeBryn began his work with more than usual care.

By the time DeBryn presented his initial findings to Bright, packed up his kit, and drove home – yawning enormously – it was so close to dawn as to be almost not worth going to bed. The house was cold and dark when DeBryn entered; he had half-expected to find Morse on the doorstep, but there was no sign of him. Perhaps he had gone back to his own digs, or was folded awkwardly into a chair at Cowley General. Hopefully the chap would have the sense to remember the sofa in the pathologist’s office.

DeBryn’s mouth had the sticky, stale feeling that spoke of too little sleep and too long a day, and his eyes were gritty. Pausing only for a large glass of water, DeBryn tugged off his clothes and crawled into bed – shivering a little at the unaccustomed chill of the sheets – and was asleep bare moments later, his face pressed into Morse’s pillow.

\----------

The next morning was a trial. Only the memories of last night stopped DeBryn from sliding back into a doze the instant his alarm went off, and it took two cups of strong coffee before he felt capable of being the slightest use to anyone.

At the hospital he parked in his usual spot, before making a detour instead of heading straight to the morgue.

‘Good morning.’ Stepping through the doors to Casualty, he accosted the nearest white-capped nurse. ‘There was a police officer brought in last night. Name of’ –DeBryn paused, acutely aware that, despite his years working with the man, he had no idea of his Christian name– ‘Thursday. Inspector Thursday. Do you know where I might find him?’

She gave him an unimpressed look that said quite clearly she had far too much to do to run around after his queries, but DeBryn hung onto his pleasant yet inexorable smile until she sighed and went to check.

Thursday was in a private room, under heavy sedation after the operation, and after a glance at the door DeBryn flipped furtively through his chart, frowning at what he saw. Touch and go; a few inches higher and DeBryn might have been seeing the man in his own environment rather than here.

But there was still no sign of Morse, and on the way out he stopped by the ward’s main desk. ‘What about the young man with him?’

The ward sister frowned, reaching at once for the tray of patient files. ‘Mr Thursday is the only new admission we’ve had. But I can ring down and ask–’

‘No, no. Not an admission.’ Or so he hoped. But no: surely Bright would have mentioned if Morse had been injured? ‘But he would have arrived with him, probably hung around the ward until he was chased away.’

None of this brought any light of recognition to her face. ‘Perhaps he left before shift change? We’ve only been on since six.’

It was unlike Morse to give up so easily. But there was nothing to be gained from pressing the question and DeBryn murmured his thanks and turned away.

There was no sign Morse had visited his office to make use of the sofa: DeBryn’s piles of papers and journals were untouched, and DeBryn chewed briefly at the edge of his thumbnail. There was something off about this. Why would Morse choose now, of all times, to be suddenly meek and biddable, and allow himself to be sent home? Perhaps he had injuries of his own, that needed attention and that of course he wouldn’t see to. For a brief moment DeBryn gave serious thought to going round to Morse’s digs and checking on him, but the presence of three bodies awaiting autopsy put paid to that idea.

At lunch, he promised himself, shrugging off overcoat and jacket and rolling up his sleeves. He could afford to sacrifice his lunch hour for the sake of reassuring himself as to Morse’s health.

Somewhere midway through the first autopsy the telephone shrilled and DeBryn sighed, giving it a sour look as he stripped off gloves and went to answer it. A callout to a body found this morning by the housekeeper – an older man, stabbed in the neck with a loaded syringe – and as he noted down the address DeBryn glanced at his interrupted autopsy and pursed his lips. At this rate he could bid farewell to his lunch hour, and to his plans of checking on Morse.

At the scene DeBryn was greeted by a serious constable Strange, who briefed him as he led DeBryn into the house.

‘We think it’s connected to Blenheim Vale,’ Strange finished, as he stepped back to usher DeBryn through into the study, with the body slumped face-down on the desk. ‘This bloke – Doctor Fairbridge – is the father of Mrs McGarrett, who was up there last night.’

Blenheim Vale again... death and misfortune hung about the place like a shroud, and DeBryn irritably twitched away a sudden cold shudder. ‘Very well. Send Morse in to see me when he arrives.’

The sudden stillness from Strange made DeBryn squint at him suspiciously. ‘He is on his way, I presume.’

If this had any connection, however remote, to why Inspector Thursday had been shot and by whom, Morse would fight tooth and nail to be on it. Yet Strange had the look of a man wishing himself anywhere but there as he said, ‘You’ve not heard...’

Fear trickled down DeBryn’s spine. He squeezed his hand tighter on his case’s handle, trying to still the trembling, and turned to pin Strange under his most forbidding look. ‘What have I not heard?’

‘Morse...’ Strange stepped closer, lowering his voice. ‘He’s been arrested.’

The world blurred, tilting sideways. ‘What?’

It was as he had always feared: someone had noticed Morse’s attention to him. Had they been seen last night, in his office? It should be impossible, the morgue had been empty, and the squeak on the main door better than an alarm to warn of anyone’s approach.

‘For the murder of Chief Constable Standish,’ Strange added.

It made no sense, and DeBryn gripped the handle of his case tighter, forbidding himself to flinch. ‘When?’

‘Last night. At the scene.’

That explained Morse’s curious absence, and DeBryn licked his dry lips. ‘Framed, of course.’

‘Yes.’ Strange’s face was grim. ‘They’re taking his statement today.’

‘And the others?’

At Strange’s puzzled look, DeBryn clarified; ‘The other officers at the scene with Thursday and Morse? Their back-up? Morse–’ DeBryn bit back the words that wanted to tumble out, a childish protest against reality: _Morse promised me he wouldn’t be alone._

Instead he continued: ‘I assume Inspector Thursday would have called for back-up, at least, even if Morse hadn’t the sense to do it.’

A dull flush mounted Strange’s throat, and he hooked a finger into his collar briefly, as though he suddenly found it too tight.

‘They were alone,’ DeBryn said quietly, the realisation dawning slowly, horribly. ‘Why were they alone? Why did no-one come?’

‘Just...’ Strange interrupted him, slightly too loudly. ‘Let me knew if you need anything for this’ –his gesture took in the slumped body, the syringe gleaming dully on the desk beside him– ‘and I’ll see you get it.’

Strange left without awaiting a reply, and DeBryn caught his lip between his teeth as he turned to unpack his case. A suspicion was forming, in a cold knot lodged just under his ribs. He prayed he was wrong but really, it had been many years since he had believed in a God and he was too accustomed to dealing the realities of human prejudice and nastiness to cherish any warm illusions.

He had feared this would happen. That rumours would start about Morse, rumours that hit upon just enough of the truth to never be entirely quashed. Proof may not be possible, but there would be some spurious charge brought against him for another crime; untrue, of course, but there would be evidence planted, and false testimony given, enough to send him to prison.

DeBryn had foreseen this; _why_ hadn’t he been stricter with Morse? Forced him to go out with various girlfriends? Never mind his own hurt feelings at the thought; it might have saved him from this. From a deaf ear being turned to his call for help, and the iron bars of prison closing around him as surely as a cage around a wild bird.

\----------

In hindsight, DeBryn looked back on those weeks as a sort of living hell. He had passed though difficult periods in life before, of course, but never had he been forced to confront the fact that he had brought harm to someone he loved, someone he would have gone to any lengths to protect.

Never had DeBryn been in greater need of a clear head, and never had it been more of a struggle to maintain. He was half-mad with worry; he had attended enough ‘accidents’ in prison to have a good idea of what may be in store for Morse. A fall from the top walkway. A ‘suicide’ that found him hanging from the bars of his cell one morning, at the end of a rope of torn sheets. DeBryn had seen in great detail what hanging could do to a face, and some nights he lurched awake in the small hours, pyjamas and sheets soaked with cold sweat, his mind full of Morse’s features – the same ones that DeBryn had kissed in passion, had stroked in tenderness – gone bloated and discoloured. Or beaten to an unrecognisable mess.

Small chance of any protection for Morse from the prison guards, ether. A policeman who had killed one of their own? If the prisoners didn’t get to him the guards would. Sooner or later there would be one who thought himself an instrument of a rough sort of justice, or who would be willing to turn a blind eye. And if the rumours of Morse’s sexual proclivities had stretched as far as the prison network–

At this point DeBryn would have to get up, abandoning all hope of sleep for the night and picking up a journal, a book, the newspaper, anything to distract himself and busy his mind until dawn.

It was also the start of the regular smoking habit DeBryn had held out against for so long, unlike so many of his colleagues. When writing up the autopsy report for Chief Constable Standish, he realised the spots of blood on his notepad weren’t from his work. Over the past day he had chewed his thumbnail down to the quick – a nervous boyhood habit he had grown out of – and it was bleeding afresh. He swore, found a piece of sticking plaster for it, and after work stopped by the newsagents to pick up a packet of cigarettes. The rush of nicotine was a relaxant, albeit a temporary and artificial one, and it was a welcome distraction to have something to do with his hands.

The other distraction, surprisingly, was the cat. After that first dreadful twenty-four hours, spent shuttling between the morgue and crime scenes as his vague sense of dread coalesced firmly into horrified distress, DeBryn had returned home to a faint odour in the air. He followed his nose from the front door along to the kitchen, and stared, appalled, when he opened the door.

The cat, shut up and bereft of food or access to the outside, had clawed open the larder door, pulled the butter dish and a box of eggs off the shelf, and fouled a corner of the kitchen. It cowered under the kitchen table, ears flattened and eyes huge, as DeBryn entered, growling oaths, furious at himself for forgetting about it, at Morse for encouraging the thing here in the first place.

When he stamped across the room to fling open the back door, letting clean air in to drive out the stink, the thing had bolted past him and into the garden in a ginger streak, and DeBryn set himself to giving the place a damn good cleaning. He had almost finished – the room smelling strongly of bleach, but a marked improvement on previously – when the animal reappeared, sitting at a careful distance as DeBryn slopped the bucket of dirty water down the outside drain, and then sat on the doorstep to light a cigarette, letting the crisp winter air flow through the damp kitchen.

‘Alright then,’ DeBryn had said, calmer after taking out his annoyance on the dirty floor. He carefully didn’t look at the cat, but tipped his head back to exhale his words on a plume of smoke. ‘Not your fault, I know.’

Dear God, talking to a cat like an old spinster, and DeBryn shook his head at his own foolishness. If the thing was staying then it would need some sort of arrangements. He didn’t much fancy cleaning its messes out of a litter tray, and with his irregular hours he could hardly be on hand every time it wanted into the garden. He glanced over at the back door and ran a hand over the wood, considering. It shouldn’t be too difficult to put some sort of cat flap in there. He hadn’t ever thought he would be the sort to own a cat, much less deface his own door for it but – DeBryn glanced at the animal, making it freeze in the act of creeping nearer – Morse had loved it. And in Morse’s absence, DeBryn had a childish desire to cling to the things he had left behind, as though caring for them could in turn guarantee Morse’s safety.

‘And I suppose he’ll want the crossword kept too.’ DeBryn took a last draw on his cigarette before squashing the stub against the ground and leaning over to drop it in the bin by the back door. ‘Come on, then.’

And under the cat’s unblinking stare he rose, fished a pair of scissors out of the drawer, and went to retrieve the Oxford Mail from the hall table.

\----------

The next morning DeBryn rose early. He scrambled an egg for the cat’s breakfast, in a bid to win its affections, and finished the autopsy reports before taking them to the station and delivering them to Bright personally.

‘Well,’ DeBryn demanded, after he had summarised his findings, his untouched cigarette silently consuming itself in the ashtray, ‘is there anything further you need for this?’

Those reports were some of his best work: DeBryn had taken the greatest care of his career in the autopsies and the writing of them, knowing only too well all that could hang upon the smallest detail.

‘Thank you, Doctor.’ Bright laid them aside, his voice crisp. ‘Most helpful. If there’s nothing further?’

DeBryn watched Bright push the folders to the side of his desk as though they were mere pieces of paper, as though they didn’t contain the necessary information to secure Morse’s freedom. ‘May I once again draw your attention to ACC Deare’s hands. The chafing and trace fibres found thereon, that match the fibres of–’

‘Yes, Doctor.’ This time Bright’s voice held a snap, and DeBryn fell silent. ‘Duly noted, thank you.’

And DeBryn had to be content with that.

There was a limit to how much he could be seen to care. If the gossip about Morse was as yet unsubstantiated and hadn’t acknowledged the fact of him having a regular bedmate then DeBryn wouldn’t help the fellow with any overt interest, despite the fact that he would have disillusioned them all in a heartbeat if it would do Morse the slightest bit of good.

\----------

A week later, at a drowning in the Isis found by an early morning dog walker, DeBryn delivered his initial findings to an impassive Sergeant Jakes.

‘Thanks, Doctor.’ Jakes began to turn away, but paused when DeBryn spoke.

‘I’m not sure I see the connection to Blenheim Vale, but thankfully that’s your job, Sergeant, not mine.’

Jakes turned back, staring at him. ‘There isn’t one.’

DeBryn frowned. ‘Is that not what you’re supposed to be working on?’

‘Yeah, but it doesn’t stop other people getting killed, though.’ That held just enough of a snap that DeBryn narrowed his eyes, and Jakes sighed. He dug out his packet of cigarettes and offered them to DeBryn who took one and fished in his pocket for his matches, less from a willingness to call truce than a hope this would unlock Jakes’ tongue.

‘We’re working on it,’ Jakes said quietly. ‘But there are problems. With his timeline.’

‘Oh?’ How ironic that it was Morse himself who had taught DeBryn the effectiveness of staying silent and simply letting the other party speak.

‘Discrepancies.’ Jakes paused, drawing on his cigarette. ‘He says he arrived at the pub around seven. But the barman is sure it was quarter past.’

‘I see. And no-one can corroborate either statement?’

Curiously, this made Jakes flush and look away, in the direction of the Isis. ‘No-one sober enough, no.’

In the weak winter sunlight Jakes looked distinctly off-colour, the dark circles under his eyes looking almost like bruises.

‘Just... let us do our jobs, Doctor. We all want him out of there.’

And DeBryn could only nod and turn away.

In the car, DeBryn chewed at his thumbnail briefly before making himself stop and squeezing the steering wheel tightly. Timeline problems. And given the time in question, it was no great stretch as to which portion of his evening Morse was lying about.

DeBryn started the car and pulled away from the kerb, taking the route back to Cowley General on autopilot as his mind raced.

He was a fool not to have guessed already; if Morse had mentioned his visit to DeBryn’s office when giving his statement, an officer would have already come to DeBryn to take a corroborating statement. DeBryn had worked with the police for long enough that he knew how this went. The lack of any follow-up meant Morse was keeping his mouth shut about their time together that evening.

‘The fool,’ DeBryn said aloud, striking the steering wheel with his palm. It would be the saving of him; if one factored in the time needed to drive to Cowley General and back again, there was simply no way he could have had _time_ to kill Standish, and he must surely know that DeBryn would be only too happy to provide an alibi. ‘The bloody fool. Isn’t he aware that...’

Except of course he was, DeBryn realised a moment later, his heart sinking. Not only was Morse aware, but he was two steps ahead of DeBryn: if he mentioned stopping by the pathologist’s office then he would be asked to explain why. And what could he tell them? The truth - a snatched five minutes with his lover before walking into what, DeBryn was now sure, Morse had known to be mortal danger... it was out of the question. A lie would suffice, it if weren’t for the fact that DeBryn would need to accord with whatever lie Morse told, yet without knowing what it was.

At the hospital DeBryn parked in his usual spot and then sat fidgeting with his car keys and staring into space, brain working furiously. He could overrule Morse. Come forward; he could put the keys back in the car ignition right now and drive to Cowley Road police station and demand to speak to Sergeant Jakes. Confess the truth and win Morse’s freedom.

But it would mean providing solid confirmation to the malicious rumours that had set Morse up for his fall. It would be the end of his career in the force: Morse may have had his papers all completed and ready to hand in, but it was one thing to leave and quite another to be kicked out in ignominious disgrace. And DeBryn daren’t even consider what would happen to Morse in prison if it became known his male lover had come forward to exonerate him.

After a long moment, the weight of worry dragging at his movements, hating his own uselessness, DeBryn climbed slowly out of the car and trudged towards his mortuary.

\----------

It was one more thing to add to his list of worries, and DeBryn went through his days only half-aware. Not at work, thank goodness; an autopsy or toxicology test required sufficient concentration that sometimes almost a full morning would pass and DeBryn would glance at the clock and realise he hadn’t thought about Morse once. But outside of work – a quiet drink in the evening, picking out a record, walking past a poster advertising a performance of Tallis’ choral music – Morse felt so close DeBryn half-expected to turn and find him there.

His sleep was erratic, frequently broken by nightmares, and he often didn’t manage to fall asleep before the small hours, oversleeping as a result. The days blurred into one another, erasing his sense of time passing until one morning, having overslept, he was trying to eat his toast and drink his tea and fasten his cuffs, all at once. He was already late, but the cat was crying for food and there was still the rubbish to put out and he turned too swiftly, annoyed at himself for sleeping through the alarm that morning, and his unbuttoned cuff swept the pile of clipped crosswords off their perch on the windowsill, sending them fluttering to the floor.

‘Bugger,’ DeBryn muttered, heartfelt, glancing at the clock. He bent to pick them up, before pausing and staring at the scatter of neatly clipped grids.

There were so many of them. And each one represented a day Morse had been inside, shut away from his books and music and the things he loved, that made him so uniquely himself, and the man DeBryn adored. DeBryn’s hands hovered over them, wanting to count them, not quite daring to. Had it really been so long? He missed Morse, yes. Missed him so much he sometimes felt sick with it. But the mind could grow used to very nearly anything; at what point had it become normal to him to shoulder this weight? When he was clipping out the fifteenth crossword? The twentieth?

At last he gathered them up and stacked them on the table, secured them with the salt cellar, and left.

At lunchtime DeBryn scooped up the report on the recent hit and run case that Strange was due to collect that afternoon and made his way to Cowley Road station, determined to make a nuisance of himself until he gained admission to Bright’s office.

It turned out to be easier than expected: Bright’s door was already open, and he lifted his head at DeBryn’s approach.

‘Doctor DeBryn.’

‘Mr Bright.’

DeBryn stepped into the room, and sat without awaiting an invitation. ‘I happened to be passing’ –a flagrant lie– ‘and thought I would check on the progress of Morse’s case.’

This made Bright’s eyebrows lift, his eyes widening slightly behind his thick glasses, and DeBryn lifted his chin and tried to look as though it were the sort of thing he would do for any of Morse’s colleagues.

Instead of replying, Bright got up and went to shut his office door, and DeBryn held himself still as his heart raced.

‘It’s good of you to be so concerned for him.’ Bright resumed his seat, took a cigarette from the ornate box on his desk, and tilted it towards DeBryn.

DeBryn took his time choosing and lighting a cigarette, praying for his voice and hands to stay steady.

‘As I would be for any of your men who found themselves wrongly accused.’ DeBryn shrugged, taking a deep draw on the cigarette, welcoming the rush of nicotine. He held his breath for a few seconds, meeting Bright’s eyes unflinchingly.

DeBryn’s position gave him a certain amount of liberty when speaking to Bright or his equivalent at county. But there was nevertheless a limit to how and when he could choose to exercise it.

‘Indeed.’ If Bright had noticed DeBryn’s tone he gave no sign of it. In fact he looked rather strained, DeBryn noted, his pale face lined and weary.

‘This is an ongoing investigation, of course,’ Bright said, ‘and you understand I cannot disclose confidential information.’ He paused, took a draw on his cigarette. ‘However there is certainly evidence enough that Morse’s version of events would seem to be the correct one.’

DeBryn’s heart leapt. So Morse’s timeline problems had been resolved, then. Thank heaven for that.

‘All that remains,’ Bright added, ‘is for the Board to meet and review the case file.’

‘So it should be fairly straightforward,’ DeBryn pressed.

Bright made a noncommittal noise. ‘The constable got himself tangled up in something rather bigger’ –DeBryn could barely hold back a noise at this; when had Morse failed to get himself far too deeply into things– ‘of which his incarceration is but one element. The panel will review the issue as a whole, however you understand why it is difficult to convene them at this particular juncture.’

DeBryn made no reply, puzzled, and Bright looked at him narrowly.

‘Tomorrow is Christmas Day,’ Bright said at last, waving his cigarette towards the rest of the CID outside his door. ‘The members of the Board are away for Christmas, and reluctant to convene to deal with something that could just as easily wait until the New Year.’

That would explain why DeBryn had found it easier than usual to gain access to Bright’s office. And now he thought about it, the CID office had seemed rather sparse.

‘Yes, I see,’ DeBryn muttered, trying to look as though he had been perfectly aware of the fact.

‘Surely have plans of your own,’ Bright said, a note of encouragement creeping into his voice. ‘Family, and so on?’

‘Oh. Yes, quite so.’ In fact DeBryn was to be in Oxford. He had volunteered to cover the Christmas and New Year shifts, partly in recompense for last year’s leave, and partly because Morse had planned to be in Oxford likewise. DeBryn had invited him over for a Christmas dinner, and had set aside a bottle of expensive brandy. 

DeBryn roused himself. ‘And yourself?’

‘Mmm.’ Bright’s eyes flickered to a framed photo on his desk. ‘Yes, I expect so.’

A melancholy expression flashed across his face, one that DeBryn felt sure he wasn’t meant to see. He was abruptly reminded he wasn’t the only one with secrets.

‘Well then.’ DeBryn took a last inhale from his cigarette before leaning forward to stub it out. ‘You’ll tell me if there’s anything I can do.’

‘Yes.’ Bright seemed to be hesitating over something, and when DeBryn held his silence he blurted out: ‘I realise it may seem counterintuitive, but this really is the safest place for him. At least while this investigation is going on.’

Only tremendous self-control stopped DeBryn from giving his opinion of that. ‘I see.’

‘Yes.’

But Bright wouldn’t meet his eyes, and DeBryn wondered whether he even believed his own words.

‘So I shouldn’t expect a call to attend him in a professional capacity, then.’ DeBryn let a touch of acid creep into his voice, because this was the thing that woke him in the small hours: the idea of being called to an accident at Farleigh and arriving to find Morse’s beloved face still and cold.

‘I’m sure the guards will extend Morse the same protection as any other prisoner,’ Bright said firmly, ‘as is their duty.’

DeBryn could read the subtle hint, and he rose. ‘And I shall let you return to yours.’ He pushed the chair back to its place. ‘Mr Bright.’

‘Goodbye, Doctor.’ DeBryn was at the door before Bright cleared his throat. ‘And...’

DeBryn turned, eyebrows raised.

Bright’s smile was tired. ‘Merry Christmas.’

\----------

It wasn’t a particularly merry one. DeBryn had planned to cook a roast for them, and had a bottle of old brandy he had been saving for the occasion. DeBryn would be on call, but Morse was supposed to have handed in his papers and be at leisure, and DeBryn had thought wistfully of breakfasts in bed together over the holidays – a luxury rarely permitted by the respective demands of their jobs.

Christmas presents had posed a challenge; Morse had a passion for music, but his record collection was so fussily curated that DeBryn wouldn’t dare attempt any additions. In the end he had bought Morse a collected biography of English composers, a navy tie with narrow pale blue stripes that would complement his eyes, and a pair of butter-soft leather gloves, and planned to offer a trip to Glynbourne for the summer.

The reality was rather different.

DeBryn spent Christmas Day in the mortuary, churning determinedly through reports and paperwork. He made his obligatory calls to his brothers, wishing them a merry Christmas and fixing a smile on his face to give his voice a note of cheer he didn’t feel, and at six o’clock he went home to get thoroughly, soddenly, insensibly drunk.

\----------

Keeping busy was the important thing. The alternative, that his mind was all too ready to turn to, was counting the days, worrying at them as a different man might have poked at an open wound, and DeBryn tried his hardest not to notice the time slipping by. The wheels were in motion, Bright had said, and there was nothing more DeBryn could do. In a way it had been easier when DeBryn was working on the autopsies and their associated reports: at least at that point he had the impression of doing something.

New Year came and went, and a few days later – over his solitary breakfast, the radio on to provide company – DeBryn discovered a half-pint of milk gone sour in the back of his fridge. It was only as he was disposing of it that the thought occurred to him and he could have kicked himself. Why hadn’t he realised earlier?

Morse’s lodgings had seemed charmingly bohemian on DeBryn’s previous visits, but those had been undertaken in a very different spirit: breathless with excitement, and his heart racing at the prospect of a stolen hour or two in Morse’s company. Alone, DeBryn had the liberty to notice how forlorn they were, the old Georgian townhouses that would never regain their former grandeur, with cracks in their front steps and the paint flaking from the doors, and he glanced without comment at the uncollected rubbish at the kerb and the broken streetlight overhead as he scurried through the icy January drizzle. Outside the front door he huddled beneath the porch and fished out the keys Morse had handed to him months ago, recalling Morse’s shyly pleased smile. 

Morse’s rooms were musty, the air cold and with a hint of damp. As DeBryn suspected, the fridge contained a half-pint of milk gone thoroughly rancid, some vegetables gone entirely to mush, and a wedge of cheese covered in thick fur. The rubbish bin in the kitchen stank to high heaven, and DeBryn flung the window wide as he worked.

When the place was clean, and the smell dissipated somewhat, DeBryn stood in the centre of the room and looked around. It wasn’t much. Small wonder Morse had always preferred to come to DeBryn’s house. DeBryn walked through to the narrow single bed pushed against one wall, and sat on the edge. Furtively, as though Morse himself might walk in any moment and catch him at it, DeBryn leaned down to press his face to Morse’s pillow and inhale. It was faint but there – Morse’s own unique scent – and in that moment DeBryn missed him so acutely his throat ached with it.

It would have been so easy to slide into despair. To sit there in these empty rooms: Morse’s books still where he had set them down, a half-drunk bottle of Scotch on the mantelpiece, and let himself feel the depth of the man’s absence. But that way lay madness, and DeBryn drew a last deep breath, drawing Morse’s scent deep into his lungs as though he could carry it with him to sustain him, before he stood, looking around. There was little of any value here, but DeBryn’s glance halted at the sight of the records and turntable. The machine, at least, looked expensive, and while the records held only a moderate monetary value DeBryn didn’t doubt for a moment that each one had been carefully chosen and was cherished.

Conscious of the damp in the air, the peculiar mould growing in the cracks of the tiles by the tiny sink intended to serve as a bathroom, DeBryn gathered up the records and closed the lid of the turntable, securing it for transport. Those at least he could protect for Morse.

On the way out he stopped to tap on the landlady’s door.

‘Number six, upstairs,’ he said. He tried a smile but it felt odd, as though his muscles had forgotten how. ‘I assume his rent must be due soon?’

‘End of last week.’ She didn’t seem a particularly friendly sort. But then again Morse, with his fondness for loud opera and his comings and goings at all hours, was perhaps not the most desirable lodger.

DeBryn set down his armful of records to fish out his chequebook. ‘How much for next month?’

The figure was rather more than anticipated, considering the run-down state of the street and the sparse furnishings of the room. As DeBryn wrote he was conscious of her eyes on him.

‘Family, are you?’ she said at length, shifting her weight from one slippered foot to the other.

‘No.’ DeBryn signed the cheque, tore it off, and held it out to her. ‘Just a friend.’

She took the cheque, turning it over in her fingers, and DeBryn flipped open his notebook.

‘He’s had to go away for a few weeks,’ he said, not looking up as he wrote. If she was unaware of the truth, he wasn’t going to enlighten her. ‘And he could be away for several weeks more. If the rent runs out again – or if there are any problems with the place – then ring either of these numbers and ask for Max DeBryn.’

The torn-out page he handed to her contained the numbers for both his house and the hospital; she nodded and had closed the door even before he finished gathering up the records and turntable.

Outside in the drizzle, struggling to manage his umbrella without dropping the records or the turntable, DeBryn smiled humourlessly. When he had considered offering financial assistance to Morse while he took his next step after the police, he had rather counted on having Morse himself present for it.

\----------

If DeBryn had been thinking clearly – if he had been _capable_ of thinking clearly, on the subject of Morse’s incarceration – he would have realised that of course he couldn’t expect to be notified of Morse’s release date.

It wouldn’t have changed anything, but it may have meant him staying home that evening. He might have seen the fellow, and who knows whether things might have turned out differently.

The concert was Satie’s _Gnossiennes_ , at the Sheldonian Theatre. Pieces Morse was fond of, and had previously expressed admiration for; DeBryn had spent the entire concert thinking how much Morse would have liked it. It had been dreadfully lonely to sit in the middle of a crowd, with the empty space at his side marking the absence of the only person he really wanted to see, but solitary drinking at home had hardly been a desirable alternative.

It finished just after nine, and DeBryn drove home in contemplative mood. The house was dark and silent when he arrived, just as he had left it, but he opened the front door and switched on the hall light and blinked in surprise at the letter propped up against the telephone on the hall table.

He picked it up and immediately recognised the handwriting on the envelope, his heart giving a great bound.

‘Morse!’

DeBryn glanced into the living room on instinct, knowing already that Morse wasn’t there. The room was dark, the fireplace cold and empty, and DeBryn walked through to the kitchen. The fellow must have used the spare key hidden under the pot of mint, and he opened the back door and peered out into the garden to see, as suspected, the large terracotta pot pushed askew.

Why on earth hadn’t he stayed? Poured himself a drink, lit the fire laid ready in the hearth; surely he couldn’t fail to realise how much DeBryn longed to see him.

DeBryn sat at the kitchen table and tore the envelope open impatiently, fumbling with the single sheet of notepaper inside.

 _DeBryn–_ , it read,

_I got out this morning._

_I’ve gone to stay with a friend I knew when I was up, while I review my options. I’m clearing out of Oxford ~~but I don’t know~~_

_The past month gave me the opportunity to reflect on things. My errors during the Blenheim Vale case were inexcusable – my slowness and stupidity almost left Mrs Thursday a widow. I was distracted, in a job where one can’t afford distractions. Or mistakes._

_The enclosed belong to you._

_Please don’t try to find me._

_Morse_

The sheet of paper fluttered from DeBryn’s numb fingers to lie face-up on the table, and he stared blindly at the far wall, the tick of the clock the only sound in the room.

After a moment he reached for the letter, picked it up with the intention of re-reading it, but his eye skipped and slid away from the curt phrases. And in truth he had no need of a second reading, not when the first had etched the contents onto his heart.

He licked dry lips, gripping the edge of the table to steady himself. It was like the half-remembered blow to the diaphragm he had received once, in a rare bout of rough-and-tumble with his brothers, when Christian’s elbow had caught him in the stomach and knocked the breath utterly out of him. He tried to draw a deep breath but the air in the room seemed insubstantial and he swallowed convulsively.

Perhaps this was what shock felt like. This numbness, the sensation of standing outside of one’s own body. The impression that it was all happening to someone else. Somewhere, he knew, there was a well of grief waiting for him, despair ready to drag him down into its icy clutches, and he struggled to hold himself apart from it for a few precious moments longer.

A thought struck him and he stood on unsteady legs to stumble back through to the living room and switch the light on.

The corner table that had held Morse’s turntable and his precious records was empty, and DeBryn sank down to sit in one of the armchairs by the fireplace. He stared across at its companion, where Morse had so often sat with book in hand and a glass of something at his elbow.

DeBryn still clutched the letter and, after a few moments, he looked down at it, turning it over in trembling fingers. The notepaper was unfamiliar. Not from the notepad by the hall telephone, nor the one in the kitchen. Morse’s own notepaper, then. Which meant he must have written it before he came over here. Written it with the express intention of avoiding DeBryn, and simply stealing away like a thief in the night.

If DeBryn hadn’t taken Morse’s record player, would Morse even have come to see him at all, or would he simply have upped sticks and vanished without a word?

And where had he gone? Handed in his papers, of course, he could hardly do otherwise after all that had happened, but had he gone abroad as he had once suggested? To France?

 _Not without me,_ a childish part of him wanted to wail. _You were supposed to take me with you._

He pressed his knuckles to his lips. What a fool he had been. What a blind, romantic fool, to imagine _amor vincit omnia_. And to presume to such a depth of feeling on Morse’s side.

DeBryn walked back out into the hall. There was something wedged under the hall table that, when he investigated it, turned out to be a brown paper sack; presumably what Morse had meant by ‘the enclosed’. It was bulky, and DeBryn extracted it from beneath the table and carried it through to the living room, to empty its contents onto the sofa.

There were a couple of books DeBryn had bought for Morse. A copy of Yeats Morse had wanted to borrow – before handing it over DeBryn had secretly slid a bookmark in at _He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven_ and wondered if he was showing too much of himself. There was an envelope of banknotes that, DeBryn knew instinctively, would be the value of the rent cheque he had handed over to Morse’s landlady. And, crammed at the bottom, there was Morse’s winter coat. The thick grey overcoat DeBryn had bought him, and that Morse had been so pleased with, that he had been so quick to fold around them both on the cold November evening they stood on a rooftop and watched fireworks over Oxford. Wadded up into a bundle and dumped under DeBryn’s hall table like so much rubbish.

It was this last that brought it home. Morse was well and truly gone, and DeBryn raised the coat and pressed his mouth and nose to its collar, closing his stinging eyes as his throat tightened painfully.

His hands were shaking, his fingers icy, and he shivered suddenly. He should light the fire, warm himself. Perhaps tea with a shot of something in it, and he gritted his teeth and forced himself to set Morse’s coat aside and get up off the sofa. He knelt by the fireplace; his fingers were stiff enough that it took three matches before the kindling caught, but at last the yellow flame ran along the edge of the twigs and crumpled paper and DeBryn got to his feet. Moving slowly, like a man with a fresh stab wound who might start haemorrhaging at any moment, he walked heavily back through to the kitchen.

The first thing he saw when he entered was the neat stack of crosswords, weighted down by the salt cellar. Each one snipped out so meticulously, so careful not to miss the borders of the grid or the clues. Small use they were now, and he carried them through to the living room.

Kneeling before the hearth, he held them in the fire until a corner of the bundle caught. The flame spread rapidly, licking hungrily along the edges of the newsprint and springing up into tongues of orange and yellow, until DeBryn had to drop them on top of the burning logs. As he watched the little grids blacken and twist, falling apart into feathery ash, the heat from the blaze seemed to reach the icy numbness in his heart and the sight dissolved, his vision swimming.

\--End--


End file.
